


Webs of Time

by Spooksghostboy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Additional Content Warnings at Start of Each Chapter, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Being eight is actually pretty rough, Canon-Typical Horror, Eventual Happy Ending, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Ish? They died in an alternate future but it's still mentioned, Jonathan "Jon" Sims has PTSD, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has ADHD, Kid Fic, M/M, Temporary Character Death, The Archive Crew As Kids, This Archive Can Fit So Much Trauma In Him, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25885270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spooksghostboy/pseuds/Spooksghostboy
Summary: Time was a constant that- while as immeasurable and nonexistent as ever in the apocalypse- could still be manipulated by a talented seamstress. And she would be well fed by his fear of times already passed. After all, it wasn’t like he was afraid of the future. What else could he possibly fear when he was navigating what came past the end of everything, and completely alone?-----In which Jon finds a spider, a door to the past, and maybe a way home.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan Sims/having one (1) good day, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 75
Kudos: 241





	1. Goodnight Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! This is my first fic, so I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Since this IS based on a horror podcast, I'm going to put content warnings at the beginning of each chapter. 
> 
> Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, reference to major character death (it's not permanent, because time travel and such), spiders, body horror, references to white suburban Karens and other such horrors

Jon was not having a good day. 

In fact, Jon was not having a very good life. He didn’t quite know where to file that complaint- maybe there was a corporate representative office he could email, something like “I entered this existence with the express expectation that the world was _not_ to end in my lifetime via crushing fear entities- and so far I’ve been vastly disappointed.”

If not an official email, maybe he could at least leave a review on Yelp: “★☆☆☆☆ Worst apocalypse I never asked for. If I could leave a zero star review I _would_.”

Maybe it was best that there was no post-end-of-the-era-of-humanity review board he could throw his two cents on. He didn’t know what fear “I want to speak to your manager” fell under, but he didn’t want to become an avatar of _that_. 

That was a weird train of thought to have while stumbling, holding a chunk of his mutilated flesh to his still intact warm skin.

_Ha,_ Jon though deliriously. _I told Melanie I knew what a meme was._

Jon couldn’t die. That was still a constant. As long as the Watcher’s influence coursed through his mind, he couldn’t even be permanently damaged. _But,_ he still could have his body ripped apart- it would just have to restitch itself back together. 

As Jon felt the threads of muscle reach out towards each other, looping over his open chest, he had to swallow the urge to look down. He already knew what he’d see- the same thing he’d been watching happen over all the other areas of his body. Red ropes of tissue, just under his skin, blindly extending until they latched onto each other, then braiding back together. Jon almost thought it was elegant- or at the very least, interesting- until he remembered that it was his body. And then he was swallowing down bile so- better to just swallow the urge for now.

Jon took a sharp inhale through his teeth, as he felt the spider’s sharp claw slit another line in his skin. 

It definitely wasn’t like he was _trapped._ He could destroy any avatar without hardly wasting his breath. A well placed glare, even, would do the trick (and Jon had a highly reputable arsenal of sneers and glowers at his disposal.) But this, for once, wasn’t just to hurt him- though the weaver spinning over him was no doubt enjoying that aspect of their arrangement.

And it _did_ hurt. Very badly.

Feeling his muscles retwine back into place over his lungs, with all his nerve endings still as hyper aware as Jon’s consciousness had been while reading Jonah Magnus’ statement? Zero stars on Yelp, indeed.

Jon took a shaky inhale, tossing one of his trademark glares up at his adversary. “Are you quite finished yet?” He said sourly. “I’m a very busy man. I haven’t got all day to have my body _hemmed_.”

The creature tittered above him, the sound overlapping and crawling down his spine. She didn’t speak, obviously. A friend of Mr. Spider’s that Jon had found in the wasteland, her mouth was too full of her gaping mandibles to spare room for conversation. But as the skin above Jon’s sternum finally finished reforming, he could feel her pull. The urge to be done jumped in his chest, followed by amusement, and then the itch to gamble- throw it all on the line.

“Don’t be impatient, right, right.” Jon rolled several of his eyes (22%, the Eye supplied. If he went above 40 he got motion sick.) “I remember our _deal_ , of course. You don’t need to remind me why I’m here in the first place.” He realized he was grumbling at her like a child, and was almost amused at the irony.

“Isn’t there another way we could stitch me into the timeline?” Jon groused. Definitely more to himself at this point. He knew he’d garner no sympathy here- and if anything, he shouldn’t slight at her help. “Without _actually_ stitching me into the timeline, that is?” He winced, as her silver thread looped under the now-exposed skin of the back of his neck. 

This one took longer. The web she spun delicately looped back and forth over his pulsing tender wound, digging deep past the muscle and into his very being. Another urge to laugh pocketed in a foreign spot in his chest. Jon pursed his lips. At least one of them was enjoying this.

The spider finished back stitching, pride oozing off of her as she admired her handiwork. Jon pressed a damp palm over the wound, trying to hasten its closing. As his skin wove into itself, he could feel the imperceptible mark beneath his flesh, running up directly below the surface. An indented spiderweb pattern. How original.

“I don’t appreciate being _marked._ ” Jon twisted his fingers into the too-long sleeves of his sweater, just to keep from tearing at the damn thing with his fingers. His tender flesh still hurt too much to touch- and he knew it was useless to try to dig off what was already there.

The Spider gave a low, vibrating hum. One that he didn’t hear, but felt along each of the threads in the small house, and each of the strands beneath his skin. He felt her meaning clear enough, even without the pull of irritation she placed in his chest.

“I’m not indebted to you.” Jon reminded her. “Besides, this is for the benefit of the web, as well. When I get to my part of the timeline, you’re free to do as you please. So long as you don’t interfere, or hurt the people under my protection, that is.” He hated making promises to literal monsters, but a deal was a deal. He knew that believing you had an upper hand with any creature of the web was a good way to get said hand crushed. But considering his lack of options-

Besides. The Webs of Time was a different issue. Over the expanse of his sentence in the apocalypse, Jon had thought a lot about the Fear Entities, and all their branching subsections. Many of the fears, though mostly just law and instinct, like sunlight and gravity, did have some kind of mass that pulled you towards them- like a black hole, devouring everything, even light, that strayed too close to its infinite mass. 

They were a strange mix of rule and sentience, as far as Jon could tell. And while he could theorize all day, the important bit was how they sucked you in like a sinkhole consuming a home, dragging everyone into their endless voids.

Time though, was different. You were swept along constantly- being pulled by the stream even when fear was not an overarching factor. There were always things to be afraid of- things that became worse the more they grew on that long strand, and perseverating about when that same, miserable string would cut short. Or the more common fear- of moments you can’t possibly keep in your grasp, all the experiences and security that could easily shift at any moment into something sharp and ugly.

But time was a constant that- while as immeasurable and nonexistent as ever in the apocalypse- could still be manipulated by a talented seamstress. And she would be well fed by his fear of times already passed. After all, it wasn’t like he was afraid of the future. What else could he possibly fear when he was navigating what came past the end of everything, and completely alone?

It was that bittersweet mix of hope and anticipation and dread and overwhelming guilt and knowing that no matter what he did it would probably end up the same- _but what if it didn’t?-_ _but it most likely would_ — that spiral of the full scope of expectations that made Jon a perfect fear cocktail ready to be downed by the drooling creature above him.

Well. She could take his fear. With nothing left to lose but everything to gain, he could spare some of his torment for the one who made so fine a tapestry of him. 

After the last strand of web was imbedded under his skin, Jon walked over to the faded white door. He Knew what it originally had looked like. A yellow much like Helen’s, much like Michael’s- but desaturated now and layered in thick ropes of web and dust, so that even what was left of the peeling color was hardly discernible. He placed his hand on the doorknob, the urge in his chest saying _just one more gamble, just a little jump_ now completely his own. 

“It’s not just for me,” Jon said quietly, hand paused on the handle. Even then, he could feel the urge to turn it. Seemed The Weaver was anxious for him to get going. Jon understood, but he felt like he needed to make his point. “Or you- don’t lie, I know you do your best work subtly, pulling strings from the shadows. Manipulation is much less fun when everyone’s caught on, isn’t it?” He huffed a small laugh. It was stale, coming from his mouth. Unused. Brushing past the dusty cobwebs of a sensation once so familiar. 

Jon sighed. He was avoiding his point.

“I wanted to say- thank you.” Jon said. He heard rather than saw the shifting weight of a two ton creature, adjusting on the ceiling and walls above and around him. He felt a nudge of incredulity, a very soft urge to clarify what he meant. He swallowed past the rock of emotion that was building in his throat, trying not to take too much time to find the words. He knew The Weaver would wait regardless, the webs of time being eternal and whatnot- but he certainly didn’t like the tide of all too familiar pain that was beginning to roll in his chest again.

“I just- I know you didn’t have much of a choice.” He smiled wryly at that, letting out another laugh at a joke he’d never find funny. “None of us really have choices in things like these, anymore. But this- this is everything we were trying to do. If it works, well- maybe it would be worth it to him.”

Jon hadn’t been able to say his name in a long time. But The Weaver knew who he was referring to. After all, he did save her life. Jon could feel the understanding and recognition- and, even what _may_ have been interpreted as fondness, light up in his central nervous system, planted there by a grateful spider.

If someone had told Jon a few months ago that a primordial arachnid monster would not only be _capable_ of affection, but would only set aside that emotion for his husband of all people- well, actually. Jon might have believed them, all things considered.

“... Thank you.”

He turned and looked at the creature above him- the monster over his head, staring at him with eight, shiny black eyes. She blinked. 

Jon turned the knob and stepped through the door.

______________________________________________________________________

  
  


It’s dark, at first. 

Jonathan isn’t used to the dark. 

Jonathan remembers a time (that now floats away from him, lost in this void) that all he could do was see. No matter how he squinched his eyes shut tight, there were always more eyes open. There were always more, clustered near and surrounding him. 

Friends? He didn’t think he had those anymore. But- was that what they were? That’s what friends did, right? They stayed with you always, always watching, making sure you’d never be unseen? He thinks that’s what they were. But why did they scare him so much?

He can’t tell if their absence scares him more. 

He can’t tell. He can’t feel.

He casts wildly in the dark but that connection to his ribcage is lost. His pulsating, beating heart, always filled to the brim with anxiety, terror, affection, _aching_ , cutting grief-- is suddenly nowhere to be found.

Where did he go? Here in the dark, there’s no answers. There’s no questions, either. There’s no seeing, or thinking, or knowing. Just an absence as he feels the lack of feeling. He tries to wriggle his fingers- he thinks he has those. Last time he did. But he’s too full of the sensation of blackness, of nothing, that he can’t tell.

Last time. When was that? Is there a when? What is _when?_

To imply that he _used_ to have fingers, _used_ to have pain, is to imply that time is linear. Or even that it exists at all. Right now, he knows nothing except that that’s not true. Not here- maybe not anywhere. 

He could mourn the loss of that tool he used to cling onto, to give some semblance of structure to delineate who he used to be and used to would be but- he’s already lost that thought.

Thoughts don’t really stick here. 

He can’t tell if he’s in a cramped, crowded space, or suspended in a vast, open void- much like the sky he had once gazed at. On a point of time in the infinite spectrum, far far removed from where he was now. He pushes at that thought- the concept of _sky_ , that seems so foreign where he is now. But he knows he used to look at it while holding someone’s hand. Maybe if he could find his hand, maybe if he could find his heart, he’d know again.

He can’t Know here.

He thinks he decides that maybe it is fear- even if nothing exists, at the very least he _would, hypothetically_ feel fear in this endless dark. Maybe if he _was_ what he used to be, or could be, that’s what he’d feel. 

Instead, he knows that he’s just… nothing. And maybe everything. After all, in this space, the lack of existence is the presence of all existence.

_…. Knock, knock._

Ah. There’s his heart. Somewhere, far removed, he feels the quickening of a beat. 

He doesn’t know how- he still can’t quite know yet- but it’s that familiar fear that calls out to him, that pulls him in and towards himself. His consciousness straining against the urge to run, even with no muscles to tighten and propel him away from the dull, aching sound of a polite knock echoing against a wood door.

Against all inclinations to the otherwise, the terror clawing at his throat and pulling his thoughts out of the dark and back to him, he answers the door.

____________________________________________________________________

Jon doesn’t know what he had expected. But it probably wasn’t the intense pain. Or the… stickiness.

He came to in what seemed to be an alleyway, somewhere in an existence that he had nearly forgotten the scent of. And the scent was… well, it honestly wasn’t all that great, actually. He was a few meters from an overflowing dumpster, and yeah, The Corruption _definitely_ smelt worse but- Jon wrinkled his nose. He attempted to push himself to his feet and quickly stopped because- yup, that was where the stickiness had been coming from. Something sickly sweet was oozing from a bulging trash bag, onto the ground and now, onto Jon’s fingers.

Which were… smaller, than he was used to.

Jon didn’t really know what to think about this, opting instead to wipe his hand on the brick of the building he was sandwiched between. Which was not particularly effective.

So. Now what? 

Jon cast his eyes around. A plan, he had a plan. But his head- it was so fuzzy, like he wasn’t quite there yet. But at the same time, it was sharp in several focused places. Needles jamming into his nerves, making it hard to string his thoughts together, to move his limbs in tandem with his brain. 

He should leave. He wasn’t going to get any answers in an alleyway of someplace (hopefully in England) that he didn’t know. But maybe he should stop- breathe. 

Besides, he really didn’t want people to see him like this and- what? The worst they’d do was ask him if he was okay. But he wasn’t ready for that. He didn’t think he’d know how to react, hearing another human’s voice _not_ contorted into an endless scream of pain or terror. That sound had been the white noise to his existence for so long that even the sound of cars passing in the distance was surreal and honestly grating on his ears. He didn’t know what to do with- oh god, was that the sky?

Jon looked up and nearly cried. High, scaling above the brick and concrete and ladders and lights, Jon could just see the evening sky. Thick, bulbous clouds hung overhead, blocking out any stars he may have seen. And they were just- clouds. Tinged orange with light pollution but- just clouds. 

There wasn’t anything beyond that- he couldn’t feel anything behind _watching_ , like he was a bug under a magnifying glass. No bloodshot, all-seeing aperture which all the misery and pain of existence was fed into. Nothing to systematically dissect him, observing his trauma and the trauma of all beneath it with a clinical fascination. They were _just clouds._

Jonathan really did cry at this.

He didn’t stop, for a while, staring up at the sky overhead and crying huge, leaking tears of relief. He didn’t even think to be worry about being overheard, even as sobs shuddered wetly from his lungs. He put his hands on the concrete, _real concrete-_ and was torn between curling in on himself and shielding himself from everything that was so old and new, or touching every piece of rubble and rock and wrapper and glass shard as he could.

He opted for the former.

Jon didn’t know how long he cried like that, unable to look at the world around him, overwhelmed simply by knowing it was _there_ and it was _real_ and _oh my god, I have another chance_ \- He didn’t know, but he was eternally grateful for the horrible English weather, barring anyone from being out on such a ridiculously overcast night. 

At least- he was, until the rain started falling. 

Jon hastily began to push himself to his feet, when his hand hit something. It was wooden, and sickeningly familiar. On the cover, in deceptively simple letters, it read _A Guest For Mr. Spider._

Jon froze, tears still wet on his cheeks, just staring at the book. It had been _so long_ since he’d seen it. The child who’d opened it nearly existed in another lifetime to him. But looking at it, his stomach still swept up in fresh nausea. He swallowed the acid rising in his throat, not moving, not blinking- just staring at the innocuous story, centimeters from his finger tips.

A thick, fat drop splattered against the cover. Quickly joined by others, while rain began to stream down his face.

Almost on instinct, Jon quickly tucked the book under his arm, his giant sweater easily folding over it. Jon wasn’t sure why he cared whether it was damaged ( _displaced sentimentality? Maybe?)_ but it didn’t matter. This alleyway wasn’t actually providing any coverage from what was quickly approaching a storm.

As Jon stumbled out into the street, a torrent of questions began to swirl in his mind. Was that how he’d gotten there? A Guest for Mr. Spider? It certainly would make sense, Jon thought. Every spider was connected. The Weaver could very well have shot him down her (then dead) neighbor’s web and into where he currently was. 

Where was he, then? If he had a Guest for Mr. Spider then that meant that that bully- Lio, Jon had learned in the apocalypse, without even trying. Lionel Armatege- hadn’t gotten to it yet, since it was now in his hands.

Or maybe- did it even work like that? Jon vaguely remembered that the book had disappeared with Lio after he knocked. So did it just reappear with Jon? Did it matter?

Jon looked down at the book in his hands. He was holding it so tight his fingers were paled with the pressure. His fingers, which were… rather smaller than he was used to. Noticing it the second time made it a little more tricky to compartmentalize.

_Woosh-_ Jon’s thoughts were interrupted when a deluge of water sprayed over him, torn from the gutter from a speeding car and directly over his overthinking self. “Fuck!”

Jon leapt away from the street corner, and started marching straight into the pouring rain that was falling in sheets onto the miserable English streets. He tried to shove the book under his sweater, but he knew that was about as effective as keeping it out. He was sopping wet, the thick wool sponging up the water and adding pounds on to his tiny shoulders. 

He cast desperately about for cover before seeing a small handful of businesses across the way. Through the curtain of rain he couldn’t make out any words, only the ghostly spattering of lights and colors.

He really hoped some place would be open. He took off at a run, towards the lights, ducking his head while trying to read signs through the rain that was streaming in his eyes. 

As wet and confused as he was, Jon still held that barely compressed giddiness in his chest. With every storefront he passed, faintly illuminated by pulsing street lights, he fought down the urge to shout. It would only be something incomprehensible, and the ball of emotion that was tight in his chest strained against the cage he shoved it in. It could come out when he was dry, Jon decided.

That was when several things happened in succession.

Jon passed one of many storefronts. Through the neon sign of a bar, he could see his reflection in the rain streaked window, backlit by the street lamps and the emerging glow of the moon as he hovered between the two light sources.

And he sees something that doesn’t make sense.

It’s him, reflected back at him. That’s obvious. It would be terrifying if it were someone else. Instead, it’s just confusing. It’s him, but the timing is so wrong.

He looks down at his hands and a crack of lightning breaks the sky, uncomfortably close by. 

All of the sudden, Jon remembers Michael Crew, and he feels that familiar terrified sensation. He can almost feel a pain arcing up his back and chest, extending into a Lichtenberg figure.

It’s a weird thing to feel, a pain that never belonged to him, as he looked at a body that did. He took another moment to look into wide, large eyes, and a small soft face. A small stature, drowning in the clothes that he could almost have said fit him, years in the future. 

_I’d definitely expected to be taller,_ Jon thought, his irritation showing on the face of his young child’s self. Obviously, you can’t pick at a gift from a spider, but he sure got why she thought the whole thing was so damn funny as she pushed him out the door. 

And he’d really been hoping to go back to Season One Jon, at least.

Another crack of lightning, and the fear is back. And his legs are moving again. 

His thoughts swirled as he finally spotted an open store, just a few meters in the distance. The sign was still unreadable, but the warm orange glow emanating from the glass front looked inviting, at the very least. Maybe they wouldn’t be too upset at a soggy grade schooler leaking over their selection.

He mused as he ran, and quickly remembered why that was a bad thing to do with low visibility and freshly shortened limbs.

He slammed into a dark figure, losing his footing and slipping on the ground. The moment that A Guest for Mr. Spider flew from his hands seemed to last a lifetime. In that time, another lifetime of guilt from Lio’s death suddenly flashed behind his eyes, as Jon watched the book hit the ground. 

It skidded across the wet stone, stopping only when it hit the black combat boots of the person Jon had run into.

Jon watched, some kind of slow fascination forming in his mind, as he noticed the eye markings on the knuckles of the person’s hand. The hand that reached to pick up the book.

Jon looked up in shock at the boy before him, examining the book with some kind of confused curiosity, before meeting Jon’s eyes. It wasn’t until Jon properly looked up at him, that he noticed the sign behind the boy’s head. It was illuminated by a flickering orange streetlamp, and Jon could make it out even through the rain. 

He didn’t really need to have bothered, though. He already knew what it would say before he checked. 

Sure enough, in old black font, the sign marking the shop “Pinhole Books” swayed volatilely with the storm, as Gerard Keay looked down at the Leitner in his hands.

“Where did you get this?” He demanded, in a voice too familiar, but so young that it rang just off.

Jonathan Sims lost consciousness for the second time that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeknownst to Jon, he IS the manager.
> 
> Thanks for reading this! I basically just wanted to write a kid time travel fic featuring a bunch of kids bullying Elias, and the idea kind of spiraled (heh) out of control. So it'll be a multi chapter ride. 
> 
> Since it's my first fic, please let me know if you think I've missed a content warning!


	2. Old and New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to Bastille on repeat while writing this and it really shows.
> 
> Thanks for the warm response on this so far! I've really appreciated all the lovely comments T-T  
> Hope you guys enjoy chapter 2!
> 
> (Warnings for: Reference to character deaths, violent depictions of violence, grief, reference to traumatic events)

Gerard Keay was, against all odds, having a good day.

Gerry didn’t have the best life. Oh, sure- he could easily think of tons of folks who had it worse than him. He’d seen enough pockmarked and burned victims while traveling with his mum. He felt terrible for them, of course- but at the same time, he couldn’t help almost feeling sympathy for the monsters he’d met. 

They were victims too, in their own way. Just warped beyond recognition. People with cold eyes but fire dancing across their fingertips, after coming to bloom over all that once had brought them joy. Twisted, gangly limbs, contorting and cracking into something with far too many joints and teeth in all the wrong places, which definitely had to have hurt. Some things that could have once been human, now with glassy eyes and flesh hanging from them in ribbons, trailing after them as they slowly stumbled forwards, outstretched hands ready to tear their enlightenment into you. 

That last one had been like two days ago. It wasn’t a good time. 

It was terrifying, and they did horrible evil things that made Gerard want to throw up- but the little feeling of pity was still there. Regardless- the point was- while his life was not the worst, it wasn’t really the best either. He could definitely stand to never see another monster again. But, at least today had been okay.

After all, he finished his “special studies” early, and it was easy work, so no new injuries. He even had time to stop to listen to some street performers. His tastes definitely leaned more towards punk and rock music and less towards… freestyle harmonica, but it was still a good time. He didn’t have any change to drop in the guy’s hat, but he left a tangerine. It was only fair.

Oh- and he also stopped by the corner store and got some tangerines, so- all in all, it had come out to be a pretty good day.

Which is why, Gerard thought wryly, he really should have expected this. 

Gerard stumbled into the bookshop, casting his eyes around the corners of the shelves furtively, searching for any sign of his mother. She’d left earlier that day, nonspecific as to whether she’d be absent for days or weeks or just a few hours but-

Gerry really hoped it wasn’t the latter. He didn’t know what kind of awkward conversation they’d have if she saw him stumbling through, with an unconscious, soggy child dripping out of his arms, and a Jurgen Leitner book bouncing in his grocery bag among the tangerines.

Maybe she’d be proud of him, Gerry thought wryly, shutting the door behind him with his foot. She’d take a look at the cold form spilling out of his arms- and a light of maternal pride would glint in her eyes. _“Your first murder,”_ she’d say, as her grey eyes would go misty. She’d nearly even smile at the child’s corpse in his arms, _"Our family legacy is secured."_

Gerard snorted. Probably best to keep this from her. 

He really tried to keep his steps quiet- and to keep from bumping into any of the too-close shelves. Mostly so Mary Keay wouldn’t hear him and come charging out, literal guns blazing. But also, yeah- he guessed he didn’t want to smack the kid against a bookcase. 

Yet. 

Who knew what type of monster he might be? Not a lot of nice people, unassociated with the supernatural, just _popped by_ Pinhole Books. Especially not vulnerable, crying little kids carrying cursed children’s books. He was either a victim of something horrible or... 

Or some monster that knew exactly how to play him. And Gerard had read enough witness accounts to know that that was how they got you. 

_Thud._

Really. They should’ve spaced these better. 

Pinhole Books was some kind of miniature labyrinth, Gerard swore. Not completely deliberately, probably. There were enough wards surrounding the shop that Mary didn’t need to rely on some kind of _maze_ for defense. But somehow, whether it was Mary or someone or something else Gerard wasn’t aware of, the shelves always kept shifting each time he came in. And they seemed insufferably crowded by each other, so that walking through almost felt like the stories of the buried he had read about.

It wasn’t a large shop, by any means. But there were so many stacks of books, and the cozy, warm orange light was so calming it was almost distracting. 

Maybe the walls closing in, the books never being where he left them, was just a level of paranoia Gerard got from his experiences in the musty old shop. Maybe there was nothing supernatural but the books.

Maybe Gerard was just an idiot, to believe that. He rolled his eyes. 

Still, Gerry didn’t make it to 12 by being careless.

He was going to just have to be vigilant. Which, again, was difficult while carrying 50 pounds of deadweight. The kid was scrawny enough that he probably weighed less on his own, but the huge doused sweater added a few pounds on its own.

Gerard turned a corner and saw the lights over the register. “Thank God,” Gerard muttered, even knowing that no one would hear his gratitude. Now he just needed to get him to Gerry’s hideaway on the rooftop and they’d be in the clear. He hoisted the slipping kid up higher on this shoulder, adjusting his weight, and slipped under the hanging crystals, careful to avoid accidentally brushing against the paper wards above the back door.

Past the register, up the stairs, and into his house. 

*

Somewhen, far off, a spider stirs. She looks down at the strings she’s twining, long gossamer strands flowing into each other, as effortlessly as a river runs. Eight eyes watch, no eyelids to blink from, as the time shifts and pools into such a strange intersection. It so rarely does that. She watches as a young girl sleeps, unaware of her new mark. A little boy swinging around his darling brother. A young woman submits her job application, with fingers crossed. A small child watches as his father’s car disappears into the night.

And down down the strands, she watches an entity lose itself to the deep and theoretical. She watches fear float away, and sees a man- or a boy- or another attempt at linearity- sink and fall where everyone else floats on the surface. 

Down down down the strands, of her neat and perfect tapestry.

*

Gerard honestly didn’t know how they managed to make it to the roof. He knew he must’ve carried himself, boy, and bag through the hatch and up the ladder _somehow_ , but he genuinely couldn’t recall how. Maybe anxiety worked like adrenaline for him, and he just panicked so hard he blacked out. Add it to the spooky fun powers list.

He stepped up into the hideaway, balancing precariously on one foot to kick all his junk off of the futon shoved in the corner. He dumped everything in his arms- child, book, bag of citrus- unceremoniously on to the couch- and realized that he hadn’t really thought much about what he was going to do. 

_Really should've known my luck wouldn’t hold_ , Gerard thought, as he looked at the sopping wet and completely unconscious child that was dripping on his futon. 

Getting him up there was tough enough, and now Gerry could account for two new bruises on the kid. Which he felt bad about- assuming that was an _actual_ child in his secret hideout, and not one of the aforementioned nightmare entities, crammed into a barely 4 foot tall body.

He definitely wouldn’t put it past them.

Gerard glared at the kid on his bed. His eyelids fluttered a little, and his rain and tear streaked face had started to dry, softening a little even as he fretfully slept. His small hand still gripped his dirty sweater- about 10 times too big for him, that unidentifiable colour. Gerard decided it may have been orange, once. Or pink. Maybe peach.

It was a nice distraction, either way, from what Gerard really didn’t know what to think about. Not just the actual presence of what was probably- definitely- some soul sucking monster in his secret hideout. That was admittedly not great but- the real thing he couldn’t figure out was, what the hell had he been thinking, dragging him up here?

Okay, so, he did know why. And he kind of hated himself for it. But he really couldn’t help it. He was just so _little_ , and honestly, what was he going to do? The kid looked at Gerry like he recognized him, and then just immediately passed out.

Besides- Gerry had seen what his mother did with monsters that she wanted information out of. Hell, when she wanted something out of _anyone_ \- be that monster, kid, random passerby’s- she never stopped until she had squeezed everything out of them. Even the bits she didn’t want or need. If he left an unconscious kid in front of his family’s shop? With a Lietner book, getting soaked by the rain? Mary would have him for afternoon tea. 

That being said- if the strange kid didn’t kill him, Mary definitely would, for taking him past their wards. Which was absolutely the stupidest thing he’d done to date. It was fine though- Gerard had resigned himself to the fact that he was probably going to die a painful paranormal death at too soon of an age. He’d come to terms with that when he was like seven, so it was about time, anyways. Monsters or his mum, it was a toss up.

Gerard broke the skin of a tangerine with one indigo painted fingernail. He peeled the fruit on autopilot, eyes not leaving the boy in front of him.

The kid was shivering pretty violently, and Gerard noticed, for the first time, that his lips were faintly blue. When he laid a palm over his skin, it was icy cold, and Gerard knew the signs of hypothermia when he saw it. 

Gerry sighed, dramatic enough that he felt validated.

Clearly, he needed to make up his mind. Either the kid was a monster, and this was the last tangerine he was ever going to eat, or he was an unconscious kid who probably needed medical attention.

He shoved the cassette tapes and music fliers off a blue milk crate in the corner, grabbing out a first aid kit, just in case. He didn’t know what it still had in it, except for his tin of cat bandaids, but it was better to have it on hand. Grabbing out a few blankets from under the futon, and an old Clash t-shirt, he got to work. He’d have to get the monster’s/kid’s sweater off of him since it was basically just a wet sponge at this point.

“Why,” Gerard muttered, as he started to untangle the kid’s fist from his sweater, “Just _why_ , does this shit constantly happen to me. And I was having such a nice day, too-”

While peeling the wet fabric from his skin, something hard and plastic clattered to the ground, interrupting Gerard’s bitter spiel. He looked down. “Two somethings.” He said to himself, reaching to pick them up. 

Cassette tapes. Huh.

The boy made another small noise, hands reaching for something. His little eyebrows knit together as his hands grasped at air and Gerry really didn't want him to wake up yet. He tried putting the disgusting sweater in his hand and- yup. The weird kid’s fingers curled around it instantly, a little contented sound huffed out of his blue lips.

Gerard pursed his lips. 

He violently wished he hadn’t seen the Leitner. He could’ve just called an ambulance, then. _You still can,_ a little voice suggests in his head. _If you’re smart, you’ll just dump that kid back on the street. Or just kill him, make mum proud._

Gerard tucked a blanket over him, and popped in the first tape.

*

It’s not dark this time. 

Jon thinks he’s underwater, but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels too smooth. Like if you could turn water to glass, but only part of the way. The half formation of something liquid to something clear and solid, surrounding him on all sides. Not burying him. Not crowding. But he’s suspended in it all the same. The feeling of something smooth and maybe fragil, cool against every inch of his skin- like a glass cat twining around his legs. 

Jon tries to look around, to get a bearing on where he is. He wriggles his fingers. Good. That worked. When he turns to look in all directions, his body moves as if in slow motion, weighed down by the strange atmosphere. He focuses, and everything around him is clear and he can at least see in this place, but there’s nothing to see. Clear liquid glass, a window to nowhere.

Jon scowls. He doesn’t know what that means- but he’s getting really tired of hanging in spaces he doesn’t understand. It’s been a long time since he was somewhere he knew.

Somewhere he knew.

Where--

The glass shatters.

He can hear a thousand shards exploding and hitting against each other, the deafening almost-music of windchimes in a hurricane. 

And he feels like he’s falling, his resin case smashed.

And as he falls he sees. And sees and sees and sees.

*

Gerard was worried. 

Not just about the… eyes. Though, those were definitely a bad sign. 

The kid- _Jonathan Sims_ , he had learned- had been asleep for a while. Even as Gerry played the tape over and over, while watching the person before him toss and turn fitfully. He must’ve listened to it a dozen times by now, each word looping over itself; a deep melancholy tone narrating a future- or lack thereof- that he couldn't comprehend.

Over and over.

Or maybe he could comprehend it, and that was why he was still processing it. Gerard had learned at a young age how horrific reality was, and each day he understood it better. There was one rule he lived by, and it was that things could always get worse. 

A little sad to know that his pessimism was right the whole time.

But as he listened to Jonathan’s broken voice, the resignation in his too old tone, Gerard felt that familiar strain of “empathy for something I really shouldn’t have empathy for.” Feeling bad for the guy that ended the world was a new personal record, though. 

Gerard leaned forwards, hands clasped like a prayer, propping up his chin. Scrutinizing the person in front of him.

The boy- or man, or monster- tossed the blankets off of his body in his sleep. And twining up his body, starting from his chest and radiating outwards, were countless symbols of eyes, glowing radiation green. They looked like the marks Gerard had, from the ritual his father performed on him, years and years ago. Except Jonathan’s looked less solid- almost wispy. Like they weren’t actually there at all. 

He had been a little worried, before listening to the tape, that Jonathan was one of those freaky spider guys, based off the spiderweb etched in the back of his neck. It was almost a relief to find that the end of the world was pulled off by a creepy voyeuristic entity. At least it wasn’t _spiders_. Gerard would hate to see what that looked like.

Plus, he found it just a _little_ funny that the Magnus Institute that his mum thought was so useless actually had managed to pull off one of the fear rituals. So that may have been where some of the appreciation came from. 

Gerard sighed. He looked around for some water or something to splash on Jon’s face to wake him up. He doubted that a good poking would be enough to bring him back to life- especially considering how he slept through being thrown against heavy oak bookshelves. 

Gerry didn’t know what he was going to say when he woke him up but- it was about time he got some answers.

  
  


*

It was like falling backwards in a loop, maybe.

Or maybe it was forwards. Or some circular variation of _around_ that he couldn’t escape from, as he saw all the people from _then_ standing in front of him. They stood completely still, eyes fixed on him from all angles. But he could see something overlapping on them- some _ones_ overlapping on them, in foggy layers.

He looked at Sasha as she rolled her eyes and laughed, at something the man beside her said (Tim? Was that Tim? It had been so long since he cracked a joke.) She still was making eye contact with Jon, but the warmth in her eyes was bright and real. The warmth in all her eyes- from every version of her. A teenager Sasha shyly chuckled at a young Tim’s wit. A slightly younger Sasha laughed long and hard, while a small, five year old version of Jon’s friend giggled until her dark cheeks glowed.

The only one who didn’t laugh was the woman standing behind the Sasha Jon had once known. She was half a pace behind, instead of overlapping, but Jon could see every detail of her plastic face, as it mirrored an expression that would never belong to her, eyes made of something other than the life Sasha had. Jon supposed that even Not-Sasha was some variation of his friend, though it made him sick. She did steal her life, after all.

Jon looked around and he saw all those people, smiling. Melanie's hand in Georgie's, Melanie looking more at peace than Jon had ever seen her. Basira standing with Daisy, a light half smile warming her stoic face. Daisy's smile was crooked and leaned into a smirk as she leaned against her partner. And beyond them- all the versions and ages of the people Jon had once known, laughing or smiling, all while looking at him. The overlap was dizzying, and everything was so clear it was violent, the high definition of the people he loved pulsing over each other and making Jon's head pulse. 

The situation was disconcerting enough on its own- and Jon still didn't know where he was. But he was starting to form an idea, pushing through his growing migraine. Everything was too focused- like putting on glasses you don't need. It was sharp, and Jon could feel that something here was _very_ wrong.

Especially as something in Sasha's voice hitched, and her voice became the only thing he could focus on, as it resounded and overlapped. As she laughed and she laughed and she laughed, until tears streamed down her faces and her eyes grew wider and wider in the terror of her laughter. Until the sound was almost like a scream, was almost like a sob, playing on loop as the Not-Sasha inside her finally laughed along, a real smile touching her fake eyes. 

Tim’s smile turned mocking and hard, the venom of a snake bite. And he looked like Jon just like he had, right before he went into the Unknowing. Right before he died.

And Jon saw and saw. Melanie’s hand in Georgie’s- from a loving grip to tighter and tighter, restricting and cracking each other’s fingers without reserve. As her eyes went from their fire to something dark. As blood poured from them, dripping down her smile.

As Basira grew into someone cold and hard and bitter, and Daisy’s strength crumbled and she curled into herself in despair, broken eyes never leaving Jon’s as her chest ripped out the baying sobs of a wounded wolf.

As Oliver Banks’ resolve turned into a cool apathy, as his soft and hopeful eyes turned empty and hollow. Naomi Hern, trapped in a nightmare, fingernails clawing at her skin, to get out get out get out. Tessa Winter’s teeth gnawing at invisible keys, the plastic crunch echoing inside Jon’s head, blood pouring from her torn up gums.

All while they smiled and smiled.

Jon’s mouth was too dry to say anything. And what could he say? The words choked in his throat as he looked around at the endless terror he was responsible for. As all the people he knew and loved stood in pain, their broken eyes reflecting at him like a shattered mirror. And Jon could feel shards digging beneath his palms, and under his skin, and racing towards his rapidly beating heart.

And then, their smiles froze in place, eyes still locked on him. All the sound was sucked out of the space like a vacuum, leaving them all to hang there, almost as lifeless as ceramic dolls, polished on an antique shelf.

Mostly.

He could feel one presence, and more than that, he instantly knew who it was. Of course.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to look. But he knew he’d find him. His soft, soft blue eyes looking at him with all the hope and love he had in his too-giving heart. And Jon squeezed his eyes shut desperately, because he couldn’t, he couldn’t see him like that again- he didn’t want to see him like that-

"Jon." Martin's voice was soft- of course it was. It was always soft and almost timid, even when holding a gun to a fear entity, or torn up by rage and pain. It always had that gentleness, even buried underneath.

"Sweetheart, I need you to look at me."

Jon couldn't have disobeyed if he wanted to.

To Jon's relief and heartbreak, Martin looked just as he'd seen him, in a safehouse in Scotland. No gouging wound extending from his chest. No blood spurting from his mouth, no tears. His face was free of the stress lines, and had etches by his eyes from so much time smiling in the sun. Just Martin, no overlap- just one version of him, the exact version that Jon had known him at his happiest.

He wasn't smiling now. But his eyes were as warm as his voice, and Jon's hands were shaking.

"Martin... God. Martin, I..." He didn't know what he expected to say, but he knew he needed to say something.

"Hey, love." And he smiled and- god. Jon felt warm tears spill over his cheeks instantly because- god. This was everything he had always wanted to keep. Martin, in his comfy peach sweater, warm and cozy as the tea he liked to serve. Smiling at him and loving him and both of them knowing everything would be all right, and they were safe, and the institute was behind them, and a future was ahead- but.

And Martin moved forwards, so close he could almost touch him.

"You aren't looking too good," Martin said, but there was a tease over the concern, and Jon laughed brokenly.

"I- yeah. I don't think most people look good at the end of the world." Martin laughed and Jon's smile broke so quickly he wasn't sure it had been there at all. "I-it hasn't been... I-I've missed you _so much_ Martin. I'm-"

Martin was so close, finally close enough to reach out and touch Jon's cheek. But when he touched Jon, his fingers were cool glass. And Jon could see that Martin felt it, too, by the way he tightened his lips briefly before pushing on. 

"Martin- I'm, I'm so sorry. I-"

And his vision was filled with a transparent orange that couldn't feel more nonexistent, but Jon grasped on to the solid fabric all the same. And he cried, and cried. He'd never been a cryer. That was usually Martin's job.

"I forgive you, you know." Martin rubbed circles in his back, as he continued to talk softly. "I never blamed you at all, actually. It wasn't- you didn't want this any more than I did. You didn't mean for it to be like this, okay?" And those words couldn't undo a lifetime of self loathing and blame, but hearing Martin say it managed to simultaneously lift something heavy from his chest and also pull out something thicker and more aching.

"But listen, okay? You don't have a lot of time here." Martin said, and Jon could feel warmth for the first time against his skin, as red started staining the orange of his sweater, creeping in slowly. 

“Martin!" Jon pulled away quickly, to asses his growing wound. He knew Martin was already dead but Jon's hands hovered over him, like he could figure out how to fix it. "Are you-” Martin winced a little, glancing down at his slowly opening chest, shards sticking out and cracks splintering over his form. Martin glanced at it with something almost like irritation, before looking back up at Jon, making him meet his eyes.

"It- I have to hurry. I need you to know, it's not going to be like how we planned."

"What do you-"

"Jon." That was exasperation in his voice, this time clear as day. Even if he still looked at Jon with fondness curling at the corners of his lips. "Just listen, okay? Questions later- I know that's hard for you." His voice was only half teasing, but he pushed on quickly, rushing the rest of his words out.

“You’ll notice when you’re there. You already know you’re a little… younger, than we theorized. But I don’t think- I think you’re going to have to find some answers about time travel. It’s not going to be as straightforward as we thought.”

“I- how do you-”

“Jon.” Martin gave him a thoroughly unimpressed look, and Jon’s mouth snapped shut. Martin rolled his eyes, a hint of a fond smile playing at his lips, belying the seriousness in his tone. “Listen, you’ll figure it out. This time, you know enough that _he_ can’t play you as well. And you have all of us, right? Just- you’re not alone as you think, okay?”

Martin cupped his cheek with those cold hands, and Jon _ached._ “But- look. This time, it’s not just a second chance for the world, you know? I- it’s not going to be easy to remember this timeline, your last one. You can stop Jonah but also- you can move on. Okay?”

“Are you-” Jon couldn’t imagine what he was suggesting. “I’m not just going to _forget_ you, I can’t-”

“No- you don’t have-” Martin rubbed the tears under Jon's eyes unthinkingly. His vision blurred so much that his physical eyes weren’t the ones able to see Martin. Blood started trailing from Martin’s mouth, and he choked back a cough. “I’m not saying that- I’m just saying- you have another chance here. You can live a happy life, you can grow up again and leave behind the pain here. And I need you, I need you to promise to try.”

“I’m- I can't leave you again” Jon’s head was dizzy with desperation, unable to do anything but watch the blood extend from the gaping hole in his chest. As all the red pooled from over his heart, from his face, to his feet.

“You won't be. I’ll be there, too, you know.” Martin still managed to look at him softly. “And you can find me there but- this is your chance to be happy. So take it. Please?”

Jon nodded, unable to get anything else out.

Martin’s soft smile finally broke. Tears mixed up in the blood, and- Martin had always been a of a crier. “Hey,” He said. “I love you, you know. I love you so so much. And I always will- through every timeline or any apocalypse. Okay?”

And he kissed him with crystal lips. And it wasn’t his warmth- but it was the best thing Jon had ever had and he could recognize that sensation of _home_ , underneath the glass.

“Martin- I’m so- I-I love you, too.” He couldn’t stop crying, couldn't stop how his words shuddered out unevenly, as Martin brushed away his tears, holding him to his glass chest. “I love you, I’m- I’m so _sorry_. I-”

And just like that, Martin dissipated in his arms, like smudging marker from a mirror. And Jon reeled back at the loss, looking down in shock to see a young boy, with Martin’s curls, his wide eyes, looking up at him in confusion.

And Jon stepped back, his many eyes suddenly focusing on the space around him, where one by one, all his friends were wiped away, leaving versions untouched by destruction and the death of it all. Soft faces, young eyes, staring at him without recognition.

“I- I’m-”

And, somewhere far away, something pulls. Jon falls up, yanked through the glass water so fast that the sharp rips through his skin for a second time.

*

In Gerry’s defense, he did feel bad that the only liquid he had was a half a can of orange soda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a bit long so I had to break it up. We'll definitely get to a lot more dialogue in 3, though, when Jon is finally fully conscious.
> 
> Since this is my first fic, and first multi-chapter, any comments or criticism would be much appreciated! If there's any warnings or tags you think I've missed, please don't hesitate to comment.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Cat Bandaids and Tangerines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has some questions. Gerry is only fluent in preteen sass. Somehow they'll figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter was pretty heavy, so this one is more fun! I'm mostly laying some context, and I thought Jon and Gerry deserved some time to catch up.
> 
> With that in mind, content warnings are pretty light! 
> 
> Warnings: Brief, vague mention of depression, vague allusions to trauma, Gerry being maybe too sassy

Jon was no stranger to being kidnapped.

At one point in his life he was being held hostage more often than he went to the dentist. (Though, he really _really_ hated the dentist, so that could’ve played into it. You read a few too many statements about teeth and everything from the sterile scent to the posters of smiling past-clients, post restructuring, starts to feel a bit too pointed.)

He was no stranger to kidnappings, but he’d definitely say this was the first time he’d been woken up via soda to the face by an undead goth. He blinked the soda out of his eyes, the taste of orange dripping down in carbonated rivulets onto his lips and- _god_ , that hurt. But waking up somewhere he didn't know? With a being he knew was at the very least associated with the supernatural? Jon had accepted that he wasn't a genius, but he hoped he wasn't _that_ stupid, either.

“ _Really_. Again? Do we have to do this again?”

It was a new version of a similar situation and really, Jon had hoped that this timeline would be different. “Look. Gerry.” He said evenly, “I get where you’re coming from, I do, but I really don’t have anything I can offer you. And I’m very busy, so if we could just continue the hostage situation next week, I might have more wriggle room in my schedule.”

Gerard Keay's eyebrows shot up and he blinked at him several times, before his face started turning slightly red.

"Wh-You- _hostage situ_ -" He spluttered, "You think I _kidnapped_ you?!"

Jon raised an eyebrow right back at him. Honestly, the nerve. At least Daisy was more up front about it. "Yes? Is that not what this is?"

Jon really didn't get people associated with the supernatural. If anything, Jon should be the upset one, but Gerry looked bordering on livid. Jon really thought he was being rather civil about the whole thing, all things considered.

“What? _No,”_ Gerry leaned forwards so quickly that Jon recoiled. Gerry stilled a bit at that but still waved his hands. “I didn’t- why would I _kidnap_ you?! You were the one who collapsed in the rain, and honestly I’m risking _a lot_ bringing you up here-”

“Collapsed in the rain” was a weird thing to focus on, while the subject of kidnapping was on the table, but Jon’s attention was suddenly taken by the insistent thrumming of rain on the wood walls, each drop reverberating loudly on the tin roof. 

Oh. Things were clearing up a little bit. Maybe it was that he finally managed to blink the last of the soda out of his eyes, or maybe the fog was clearing in his brain. He tried to shake the last of his thoughts loose and he could suddenly recall running through the pouring rain, clutching a cursed book, a familiar face, an unfamiliar-familiar sign and-

That was just last night, wasn’t it? Or- how long had he been out? Since the storm, since going through a door, through a book, falling up into the rain and landing on the streets and _sobbing_ uncontrollably- 

That part was embarrassing. Kidnapped or not, he hoped Gerry didn’t see him crying dramatically in the rain, woeful and sad like some regency era heroine from the films he’d been forced to watch. (The things you do for love.)

Jon didn’t know what to do with the realization that he was _here_ and it worked.

It really, really _worked._ He was sitting in front of a man who, before, had been dead, and now Jon had another chance. Everyone was young and _alive_ , and it _worked_ , he was _here-_

Here.

Huh.

“Where…?” Jon looked around in a haze, the details rising into focus. Jon was suddenly aware of the lumps of the blue couch under his fingertips, the old wood walls with nails unevenly sticking out of them, covered by band posters, drawings, and accented by various symbols and writings in old parchment in a language Jon didn’t understand. 

Jon’s brain was still processing as Gerry’s agitated voice started coming back into focus.

“And you’re like, what, six? Literally why would I kidnap a tiny kid- to steal your Pokemon cards? I seriously doubt you have anything I want.”

Jon’s attention finally snapped back to Gerry. “I’m- oh god.” Jon really wished he didn’t remember that part. Or maybe that it had been some rain soaked illusion, a reflection he couldn’t trust. He looked from Gerry’s face- rounder than he’d once known, younger and framed by dirty mid-length blond hair. From Gerry’s annoyed face to Jon’s own, stubby little arms. 

"Shit." Jon said. "Why am I so goddamn small."

Gerry paused at that. And when Jon looked up, he seemed slightly less ready to throw him out into the rain. Gerry’s face broke and he huffed a small laugh- but it sounded a little too close to mocking for Jon’s tastes. 

“What?” Jon snapped. He hardly thought there was anything _funny_ about his current situation. Gerry shrugged and- he had an actual, honest to god smirk on his face. 

“Sorry," He said, but Jon really didn't think he sounded anything close to it. "It's just- I think you're taking that up with the wrong person."

"Well, please enlighten me as to _who_ I should be “taking it up with.”" Jon snipped. And, wow, any irritation in a voice that high made him sound _ridiculous_. He sounded like a petulant little kid, and- damn, now no one was going to take him seriously, he was going to have to entirely rebrand his image-

Gerry snickered.

“What now?” Jon sighed. Were all preteens this annoying or was it just Gerry?

“Nothing, it’s just…” Gerry grinned at him and Jon couldn’t decide if it was it his age or maybe Gerry just had a talent for making people feel very uncool. He gestured at Jon widely. “All knowing fear entity crammed into an eight year old body… Can’t blame me for thinking that’s kinda funny.”

“It really isn’t.” Jon said flatly.

Gerry was still looking at him like he was vaguely hilarious, when Jon realized- wait, how did he know about that? Before he could ask, Gerry said, "So- you called me Gerry. You know me?"

Jon's mouth snapped shut on his question. He didn't know how to break it down but- "Kind of? Yes? It's complicated. We haven't met yet but-"

"Ah, so a future thing, then."

"What? How-" Jon really didn't know what to do with Gerard Keay seeming to understand infinitely more about the situation than he did. "How did you know that?"

“Hmm?” Gerry raised his eyebrows and Jon was starting to think maybe that’s how he did the condescending thing. “Oh! The apocalypse?” At Jon’s stupefied expression, he supplied, “How you ended the world? Your plan to come back in time to fix it? Jonah Ma-”

“Shh shhh shh!” Jon jolted forward to try to stop Gerry from saying anymore, but stopped quickly when his head started swimming. Jon was never able to handle boats and just moving like he did made him feel like he was cast in the middle of the ocean, swaying on an uneven sea.

So at least Gerry wasn’t going to kill him, despite knowing that he ended the world, and that really was a lovely surprise- but he might just get the attention of Jonah Magnus, who would definitely do worse. 

Gerry looked very unperturbed and also ready to continue, so Jon shot in, “We don’t know who’s listening, okay? You can’t just…” He really couldn’t afford Jonah knowing about any plans he had. Even though the probability of the head of the Magnus Institute peeping into a 12 year old’s fort at random was very very slim… but Jon couldn’t risk that. He didn’t know how to explain that in a discrete way. Especially since he felt like even _saying_ Jonah’s name would somehow summon his attention, like some kind of annoying bourgeoise fairy.

“Suspicious.” Gerry quipped, like the whole thing was a joke. He turned and messed with something behind him, and Jon heard a distinct and familiar _pop_. “You’re safe here, by the way. But, to answer your question-”

Gerry tossed something rectangular and plastic and Jon fumbled to catch it. He looked down at two worn cassette tapes, small dings in the side, running up over where he could see the physical tape through the clear cover. Instantly he felt just a little bit calmer, feeling the grooves in the plastic, tracing his finger over the small carved out circles.

“The first one was _really_ depressing. Like, I’m not the pinnacle of neurotypical joy myself, but that? That was a new level.” Gerry said, pulling one foot up on his makeshift chair. “Besides your angst tape” -and Jon really didn’t like him calling it that- “The second one was a little… _personal._ So... sorry if you didn’t want me to hear it.”

Jon coloured a little bit, then immediately felt irritated. He didn’t have time to worry about Gerry hearing a sappy tape of him and his husband. Priorities.

“You listened to them?” Jon tried to keep the conversation on course. “Here?”

Gerry nodded and- God, Jon really _really_ hoped that Jonah Magnus didn’t regularly check up on the Keay family, or Gerry’s secret hideout or wherever they were. Or that Jon’s presence didn’t somehow alert him. Because if this was all over before he even had a chance to make a real difference-

No, he couldn’t start thinking like that. He knew he ran a slippery slope from anxiety to catastrophizing, and the world couldn’t afford him to sink into despair. _Focus on what you can control_ , he told himself, letting the reminder wash over him as he took a deep breath in… and out.

“Look, we really shouldn’t talk about it here.” Jon started.

“Ohh,” Gerry nodded, like something connected in his head and, great, he understood. "You're afraid of someone _Seeing_ you? Right? Like, an Eye guy?"

Jon's lips quirked upwards at that because, well. That did sum it up. "Yes, like an _Eye guy_." 

“Am I wrong?” Gerry said, mirroring his expression. 

Jon almost laughed at that. But it died before it could’ve gotten out. Instead, he looked at Gerry, considering. "... How much do you know about the Magnus Institute?"

"Enough." He gestured to the tape player, hatch still open. “Know that they ended the world, at least.” 

Jon opened his mouth, about ready to lose it at the way Gerry was flippantly spouting facts about a nonexistent future. “Don’t worry,” Gerry said before any words could jump out. He waved his hand idly, "Like I said- you’re safe here. They can’t See you.”

Jon gave him a very unimpressed look. “What do you- of course they can. We aren’t in the tunnels-”

“Yeah, cuz only the Magnus Institute knows how to keep things to itself.” Gerard rolled his eyes.

At Jon’s lost expression, he sighed. “Before my dad…” He tried again. “When I was a kid my dad made this hideout for me. It's foundation is a ward, and there's tons of runes of the dark and distortion built in the walls. Which, obviously isn't fool proof, and if someone really _wants_ to see, they could. But mostly any agent of the eye would skip past this place while looking. Kinda a camouflage effect."

Gerry picked at his fingernails idly, while Jon’s brain tried to catch on. It didn’t _work_ like that, did it?

"Wait, wards and runes? Those are- you can do those?"

Gerard raised an eyebrow at him, for what must’ve been the eighth time already. "Aren't you an all knowing entity? Shouldn't you have known about that?"

Jon glared, "I mean, _yes_ , technically. But when I'm from, wards and runes wouldn't even be a factor. I looked for ways to protect yourself in the apocalypse and those were basically ineffective.”

“I mean, you said everything ran on the rules of the 14, right?” Gerry said. “I think when all of nature is terrifying, there was probably too much fear to even start blocking it out."

And that… actually made sense. Gerard gestured to the scraps of parchment, strung up along all the walls, sigils and runes in strange ink. "Works here, though. I mean, I’ve got some of my own, too, on my skin,” Gerry held a hand up, and Jon recognized the eyes bleeding into his knuckles. “Course, mine are to protect me from other powers not associated with The Beholding but- same idea. There’s some weaknesses- I mean, the hideaway’s runes are more like black out curtains than a shield- but it does the job."

Jon didn’t know how much he trusted that. His luck had never been that good, and it felt a little _convenient._ But, if they could talk about it here…

“Besides,” Gerry said. “I can pretty accurately sense other powers at work when I’m nearby. It’s a kind of… Van Closen gift, I guess. I’d be able to tell if someone broke the defenses.”

Jon nodded, and tried to allow himself to feel a little reassured. Something was wrong, though. He had a question, there was something important he was missing, but he didn’t know what it was.

Figured he wouldn’t get answers sitting down here, though.

He tried to get up off of the futon and immediately felt his stomach take a deep swooping dive down, and then up towards his throat. He fell back towards the couch, off center and dizzy. Seemed like he wouldn’t get answers standing up either.

“Woah, hey, take it easy,” Gerry said, steadying him. “I’m pretty sure you had hypothermia earlier, you really shouldn’t be getting up like this.” Gerry gently pushed him back, and Jon could hear him rustling around.

“And I’m really not equipped to deal with vomit so-” Gerry muttered. As Jon’s vision cleared, he could see him moving around. Gerry flipped on a space heater in the corner, which shuddered to a start, letting out a series of not-particularly-encouraging whirs and groans. Jon really couldn’t puzzle out this younger version of the man he once knew- the one who really couldn’t have cared less about the end of the world. As he scrounged out heat packs from under the futon, tossing them to the surface, Jon couldn’t help but ask, “why are you helping me?”

Gerry paused, for a long moment. Jon couldn’t see his face with how his hair hung over his eyes. He looked up from his crouch, with an expression so pointedly neutral it almost seemed theatrical. “I couldn’t very well leave you in the rain, could I? Children’s corpses are bad for business. Even for a cursed book shop.”

“I- but you heard the tapes?” Jon said, and the dots were really not connecting. “You know that… that that was me. I _did_ that.” His voice was going to break- so he swallowed it down, along with something bitter and acidic. “Why aren’t you- I don’t know. Afraid of me?”

“I mean, kind of hard to be when you’re like 3 feet tall.”

Jon gave him a flat look, and Gerry sighed, looking up at him.

“I mean… I did. But it just… It didn’t sound like you did it on purpose.”

There was a short stretch of silence. “.... That’s it?” Jon said. “You took in the person who ended the world and _didn’t_ off me, cuz it seemed like an _accident?_ ”

Gerry glared at him. “First off, would you rather I killed you? Because I’ve been leaning towards that more since you woke up than when I heard the tapes about you plunging humanity into eternal despair.”

Jon’s mouth snapped shut, and Gerry’s eyes softened a little. “Look, if you had the ability to end the world on your own just now, I’d be able to sense that energy, easy. The room would stink with it. Good thing you don’t- can’t really crack a window in this weather.” 

Jon couldn’t tell if Gerry was joking. But the moment passed, and Gerry looked away, attention suddenly riveted to the floor.

“Besides,” He said, and the indifferent cadence to his voice definitely sounded forced now. “You said you knew me, right? And… you called me Gerry. So, I assumed that, you know, if you _are_ some kind of evil entity, at least future me would’ve considered you a friend.”

Jon nodded. When he realized Gerry still wasn’t looking at him, he said, “I think so. I didn’t- I really didn’t get to know you that well. But I like to think we would’ve been.”

“Well. Guess we’ll still see.” 

And Jon really wasn’t sure where to go from here. Maybe he had an ally, and that was great. But everything was suddenly starting to seem just really overwhelming, as a real future where he _actually could_ change things loomed ahead. He really wasn’t sure where to start, now that things were different than he thought they’d be, in the idealized plan he and Martin had worked out.

Jon’s vision went orange and his entire train of thought was derailed as something heavy smacked into his face. It was-

“Took the liberty of rinsing your sweater off. It was really nasty, you know.” Jon was hardly listening as Gerard spoke. “But I’d definitely machine wash that, cos rain water doesn’t really help much, as it turns out, and it looks like that thing’s been through hell-”

“How…” Jon looked up at Gerard with probably too much intensity. Gerry didn’t react though. “How did this- I wore this after the world ended. This was from _then_ , I-”

“I mean, you have the tapes, too, right? What, you didn’t think they’d come back with you?” Gerard sat back on the crate, stretching his arms out like a satisfied cat.

“No, I- well, I wasn’t expecting _this._ ” Jon said, gesturing to all of him. “I thought I’d go back to when I was about 30? I thought I’d go back in the body I had then- not, not-”

“An eight year old kid?” Gerry said, unerringly amused. Jon glared at him, and was _very_ disappointed to see that it had no effect. 

“Look,” Gerry said, his voice becoming a little more serious. “There’s a lot to work through here. And I’m not even close to done with the questions. But let’s get you patched up, okay? I may have dinged you against a few bookshelves, so I hope you like cat bandaids.”

*

Somewhere, far off and down a quaint road paved with flat stones cobbling up the street, Sasha James ran home from school. 

She didn’t usually run. She liked to take time to find new flowers to pick for her dad, or to stop and swing a little on the lamp posts. Sometimes she’d walk home with Tim, and he’d try to make her race but instead she’d suggest they look at the clouds. She always won that game.

Technically looking at the clouds wasn’t a competition. She always told Tim that, since he didn’t like to lose. But it kinda was- especially since she always found stories and strange things up there and Tim generally just found boats (“a kayak isn’t a boat, Sasha,” He’d say) or sometimes animals.

But that wasn’t important to think about right now. What _was_ important was what Sasha’s teacher told her! And she had to tell her mum right away because her mum was always proud of her when her teacher told her great things, and sometimes she even made treats.

Sasha ran up the steps, her sparkly transparent flats with the butterflies on them slapping against the concrete. Maybe it was her shoes that made her so lucky. They did have butterflies on them, after all. 

“Mum! Mum!” Sasha put the key her mum entrusted her with back into the little glass bowl the minute she arrived. “Mum, guess what happened at school!”

“Over here, Sasha!” Her mum’s voice was coming from the kitchen and Sasha could already smell something spicy from the entryway. 

Sasha ran around the corner, to where her mum was stirring a large pot, looking up to smile at her. Her tight curly black hair was pulled back by a cloth headband- the green one that Sasha’s dad helped her make for her mum’s last birthday. 

“Oh well you look excited,” Mrs. James leaned over to give her a one armed hug, other hand still stirring. “What’s the good news?”

“I'm a class officer, mum!” Sasha said. “My teacher said I get to lead the class next week!”

“That’s amazing!” Sasha’s mum beamed at her, and Sasha’s heart felt even warmer. “It’s a big responsibility.” She said, and Sasha knew she was impressed.

“Yep!” She bounced a little. “I gotta help do the after-school stuff! Mr. Rainey says I gotta look out for the other kids and make sure everyone has a friend. Cos "no one likes sitting alone."”

“You’ll do great at that, Sash, I know it.” Her mum blew on the spoon and had Sasha taste it. Sasha nodded. It was perfect.

“How about we get ice cream to celebrate?”

There were few things Sasha liked more than being called responsible, and on that small list ice cream was in the top three.

*

Gerry wasn’t the nurturing type. Or the healing type. He never really had the best role model for those, or any friends to practice on, but he was finding that it came easy with Jon. 

Jon was weird.

Obviously. He did just pop into Gerry’s life out of nowhere, coming back for a post-apocalyptic timeline. Which, Gerry was really taking the whole situation better than he really had any right to. Guess it was just a testament to how weird his life was anyways. 

He watched as Jon gingerly applied a cat sticker with several orange tabbies running across over a bruise (which didn’t strictly _need_ a bandaid, but Gerry would allow it.)

Gerry knew he was an adult- or at least had had the experiences of one- but he really just seemed like a little kid. Albeit a weird one, who spouted off weird nightmarish reality facts. But the way he kept puffing out his cheeks petulantly every time Gerry poked fun at him seemed too age appropriate for Gerry to reconcile with.

But that wasn’t the only thing Gerry was hung up on. He didn’t know how Jon could have those engravings on his skin earlier- or over it, maybe- when he didn’t even know about protective wards. 

Earlier, the eyes on his skin looked like they had been burned onto him. They looked solid and integrated into his being. Even as they had been wispy, and almost translucent- almost not on his skin. Like there was a layer of invisible skin beneath them, so they looked almost detached but not quite. Gerry didn’t know how they managed to be both at once.

Gerry couldn’t see them anymore, not since Jon had been passed out. But he thought he could feel _something_ radiating from where they had been before. 

Without thinking, Gerry reached out and touched his skin. He could feel a kind of… energy. It was hard to pinpoint, but it was the same feeling of

Eric's frantic yelling-- 

Garbled chanting in-- 

language that Gerry had never heard again

\--- arms around---

warm blood, not his own---

"...Gerry?" Jon's voice pulled him out of his reverie. and the smaller boy squirmed. Gerard had spaced out, still holding Jon’s arm, his fingers pressing into his bony wrist like a vice. He quickly let go.

"Sorry." Gerard muttered. "It just reminded me of-" He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

Jon looked at him suspiciously and- wow. When Jon had first woken up, his eyes were a bright, radiating green, the same color of those eyes swirling over his skin. Now, they were had dimmed down to a more natural brown- but the way he looked at Gerry still felt unnatural. Too strong, like he was being picked apart under a microscope, and Gerry _really_ didn’t like the weight of it.

He wasn’t sure if that was some leftover supernatural thing or if maybe Jon just had a knack for making people feel uncomfortable.

Gerard took a deep breath. Really, this whole thing had thrown him off his rhythm. It took him a minute to sink back into the lackadaisical attitude he usually had slung around him like a cloak. It was a good mask for anxiety. 

"Ok, so you came back in time to stop the apocalypse." Gerry leaned back on the milk crate he was using as a makeshift chair. And it wasn’t comfortable, but somehow it felt right. "So what's the plan?"

Jon actually barked out a laugh at that. It wasn't a very encouraging laugh, though. "Any _plan_ I had kind of banked on me being a few feet taller." He scowled at his short legs and red velcro sneakers. "I mean, stopping an avatar of omnipotence as an eight year old child is not my _ideal situation_. Plus…” Jon hesitated, eyes scanning the ceiling as if what he was trying to say would somehow be up there.

He hummed, still not looking at Gerry, and that was fine. He was a pretty patient person- though he mostly chalked that up to the apathy. “It’s like…” Jon started, still scanning the tin roof, talking over each echoing raindrop. “I feel almost like I’m someone else completely- like, like my feet are firmly rooted to _this_ ground. And the time far away, my life, my experiences all feel like they’re being stored somewhere else.” He finally looked at Gerry. “Does that make sense?”

Gerry’s expression must’ve said it all because Jon sighed, tugging at his hair. “The details are jammed in my head, they're _sticky_ . I _know_ what happened- and what I was going to do- but it feels- far away. Like I can't see it."

"So is that a nooo on the plan, or…..”

Jon laughed a little at that. Though Gerard really wasn't joking. He'd really appreciate some answers right about now, but all he was figuring out was that Jon was aggravatingly adept at cryptic answers and deflections.

Gerard watched, feeling his eye start to twitch, as Jon opened yet another bandaid "I'll figure out the details. I have some things to... rework. And it'll work, I swear. I-it has to.” Jon paused, and looked up at him tentatively. “But for now, can I just... I don’t know. Sit here for a while?" Jon said, and Gerry was suddenly reminded of how tired he must be. Injured.

He stuck another kitten bandaid on the blotchy bruise he'd been fixating on, and Gerard fought the urge to take them back from him. They weren't stickers, goddammit. 

( _Injured_ , _he's injured_ , Gerry reminded himself.)

"Just for a bit? I know it's a lot to ask, and honestly you've done enough by not killing me immediately after hearing the tapes but- I promise- I may be- or have been a monster, but I'm not going to… to eat you or anything." He looked up at Gerry with a small smile, like he was joking. But Gerry could see the very real worry in his eyes. Maybe not worried- more like something desperately hopeful, but hidden so well that Gerry definitely wouldn't have recognized it if he didn't see it in his own face every time he talked to his mum. 

"Yeah, don't worry," Gerry said casually. "I trust you."

Those were big words for him, but he wanted to at least establish that. He didn't know why, but it was true at least. Trust wasn't a commodity to give out freely- especially to someone who was very open about being an eldritch fear monster that subjected the entire world to a state of eternal terror but- it was hard not to trust him. 

At the very least, he hadn’t killed Gerry yet. (Famous last words.) But it was pretty difficult to feel threatened by an eight year old, drowning in a sweater and sticking cat bandaids up his arms- now organized by the color of each feline, from calico to tabby to black.

Gerard honestly had probably made his decision the minute he picked him up and dragged him out of the storm.

Jon looked up at him with wide eyes, almost like he was going to cry. Honestly. 

Gerry tossed him a tangerine. "Want to listen to some music?"

  
  


*

Somewhere, not too far away, an elderly Mrs. Sims was getting into an argument with a police officer on the phone. As the officer droned on and on about department funds and how they “couldn’t spend every other weekend tracking down one kid” Mrs. Sims was brainstorming places to get a ball and chain the right size to hold down an eight year old.

As she absently moved piles of bills and mail around, phone still held to her ear and officer still not listening to her disagreements, her fingers flipped over a shiny flyer. More than the small children running around in groups happily, the words "supervised" and "peer-based, structured fun" stuck out to her. If not a ball and chain, maybe an after school program would do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note on my many many Gerry headcanons:
> 
> A lot of the Gerry power things were stuff that hasn't really been explored by canon. Like, he was able to see when other people were marked or targeted by a power (ep 48), so I figure he has some kind of extra sense about the presence of powers. 
> 
> Also, his eye tattoos/marks weren't affected by the lightless flame (ep 12) so I'm going with them being protective wards/runes that tap into the fears. He didn't seem to be an avatar or anything so it doesn't seem to be a strict contract.
> 
> They definitely don't protect against direct strong impact, but they're a small buffer that I'm giving to Jon cuz he deserves A Break.
> 
> Anyways, it's all very headcanon-y but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Thanks for reading! I appreciate all the lovely comments and kudos- they really make my day! Stay healthy and happy!


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